


Remember Me

by CaptainWeasley



Category: The Neon Demon (2016)
Genre: Bloodplay, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, First Time, Knife Kink, Knifeplay, Pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:28:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29652705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainWeasley/pseuds/CaptainWeasley
Summary: A longer and much more explicit version of that One Scene™.
Relationships: Hank (The Neon Demon)/Jesse (The Neon Demon)
Kudos: 6





	Remember Me

"Wider," his raspy voice says, quiet and yet ringing in her ears. "Wider."

She can do nothing but obey. The sharp edge of the knife is dangerously close to her tongue, she can taste the danger, the pain it promises.

He watches her, his dark eyes cruel and merciless, with an almost detached curiosity. For a moment, she fears he's going to press the knife into her flesh, just for the joy of seeing her suffer, of seeing her choke on her own warm blood.

He doesn't, though. He just holds it there, watching her, and she is frozen in place, every muscle taut, holding her mouth wide open, as wide as she can. She feels like a morbid display in a museum: for him to gawk at, to enjoy, while she is trapped in a glass cage.

"You'll be a good girl for me now, won't you?"

A terrified sound escapes her throat; she doesn't dare nod for fear of his blade. He smiles when he hears this, a dangerous, repulsive smile that chills her to her core.

He removes the knife from her mouth slowly, teasing her with his power. He moves the knife towards her left eye, then, and the implication here is even worse than when he'd threatened to cut her tongue. She can't lose her eyes: without her pretty face, she is nothing. If one of her eyes is missing she won't have a career. A violent shiver runs through her body.

"Say that again."

"I'll be a good girl," she squeaks. "Please, not my eyes, please, I'll do anything..."

That horrible smile is back, curling his lips just a little.

"I'll hold you to that. If you disobey me in any way, I'll take one of your pretty little eyes."

She nods. There's a memory of an image from some documentary: a frightened rabbit pressed against the earth. That's what she feels like.

He takes the knife away with an easy movement, as though he were doing this every day. Maybe he is, as far as she is concerned, that's entirely possible.

"Get undressed."

She stares at him, unmoving. Her heart is pumping fast and yet she feels strangely empty of blood.

"Do it, or you'll lose an eye."

With an audible gulp, she starts taking her clothes off, one by one. She tries to move as little as possible, her whole body stiff, terrified of what he's going to do to her. What he's going to take from her. She can feel his gaze on her body, too intimate, too alien, too intrusive.

"Stop," he commands when only her bra and panties are left. "Hands above your head."

The rope he binds her wrists with is coarse against her skin. It doesn't really hurt, but it's uncomfortable to say the least. He ties the end of the rope to the headboard with practiced movements, and then, she is entirely at his mercy.

He sits down next to her on the bed, patiently looking at her, apparently trying to decide where to begin. Every second feels like an eternity to her, a torture that consists solely of fear. She realizes she's crying.

Next thing she knows, the knife is back, its cold touch light as a feather on her skin. He is circling her stomach with the metal, it almost tickles.

"I've always been fascinated with the fragility of our bodies," he muses. The knife is pressing against her skin: he must be using the blunt edge, as she can't feel any pain. "Right now, I could kill you with one simple movement. Just one stab, and you would be bleeding out in minutes. It haunts me, you know..."

It will haunt her now, too, for the rest of her life. How vulnerable she is. How easily he could break her skin. How he could snuff her out like a candle, just by turning the knife around, adding a little pressure.

He watches her face closely, a smile sneaking onto his lips, cold and without any compassion.

"It's important to realize that." His voice is soft as silk. "Remember this moment."

As if there were any chance of her not remembering. The taunt makes her shudder.

Unconcernedly, he moves the knife up her stomach towards her chest, up her left side of her body. She understands what he's going to do right before he actually does it, wants to ask him not to but bites her tongue. The last thing she needs right now is to make him angry, and they're just clothes, anyway. She can buy new ones.

The fabric makes a peculiar noise when he cuts it. He must have done this before, she thinks—he knew not to cut her bra in the middle, where the wires might have presented a problem. No, he cut at the side, where the fabric gave way like melting butter.

He severs her bra straps, one after the other, unhurriedly, then cuts the fabric on her other side for good measure. The garment is essentially useless now, only barely covering her breasts which gave into gravity the moment the external support was gone.

For the first time this evening, the look on his face is truly hungry. It's an ugly expression, twisted in a way. She wishes he wouldn't look at her like this.

He removes the cups of her bra almost reverently, like he's unveiling a precious piece of art. And then, his fingers are on her skin, thankfully without the knife, though. He cups her breasts in his big hands, and if the whole situation weren't so horrible, the way he touches her might even be considered pleasant. He's careful now in a way he hasn't been before, and when he leans down to take one of her nipples into his mouth, she has to suppress a moan. His tongue is hot against her skin, the sensation lights her nerves on fire. Next thing she knows, he _flicks_ that tongue against her nipple, and now she does moan, a lewd sound, a private sound, a sound he has no right to hear.

She feels like a toy to him, a plaything to be manipulated in any way he wants, and she is powerless to stop him. She realizes her fingernails are cutting into her own palms, but she is unable to relax her hands. It's like her arms are frozen in place, like they're not really part of her body any more.

When he's finished playing with her tits, he sits up again. Her nipples are hard and wet with his saliva.

Without wasting any time, he cuts the fabric of her panties in two places, once above each leg. With one hand, he grabs her legs and raises her hips from the bed like it's nothing, like she's weightless. With the other, he pulls away the now useless piece of fabric.

And now, she does panic.

"Please," she squeaks, utterly terrified. "Please don't, please..."

He gives her a look that chills her to her bones: the look of a man who has no problem at all taking his knife to other people's eyes.

"Open your mouth."

She doesn't dare disobey.

The fabric of her panties feels strange against her tongue when he gags her with it, it tastes and smells subtly like herself. There's an overwhelming sense of doom inside her; she's sure he wouldn't gag her if he didn't intend to hurt her.

He changes his position on the bed so that he's facing her: he would have a good view of her most private parts if her legs weren't clamped shut in terror.

"Open your legs," he says silkily.

Despite everything, despite his threats, she shakes her head. A small, terrified sound makes its way past the gag. She looks at him, trying to plead without words, but there's no mercy in his dark eyes.

With a few movements that seem to come entirely too easy to him, he manhandles her into a new position: her legs off to one side, his left, so that the right side of her hips is pressed into the mattress and her behind is freely accessible.

The cold metal of the knife is back, and she shudders violently when she feels it in between her butt cheeks, the tip close to her asshole.

"Open your legs," he says softly. He doesn't even need to tell her what the alternative is.

With a shaky sob, she forces her limbs to obey, forces her legs apart. It's difficult because of the position she's in, but he does notice her efforts to follow his command. He takes the knife away.

"The funny thing is, when given the choice, they would all rather take my cock."

He says this with a slight smile, as though it were a fun fact he was telling her at some dinner party. She gulps.

Without wasting any time, he repositions her so that her hips and her back are flat on the mattress again, and he can look at her cunt. Her legs are open a little, and he pushes them further apart. She doesn't fight him, lets him put her on display. He is right, after all: when given the choice, she would rather take his cock.

He looks at her, he touches her, like her body belongs to him. Silent tears are running down her face, but she doesn't make a sound. It wouldn't do any good.

"I do like to leave a mark," he tells her conversationally. "Something to remember me by, huh?"

She shakes her head violently when she can see him taking up the knife again. Entirely ignoring her feeble protest, he spreads her labia with one hand, and she's powerless to stop him. The next thing she feels is the sharp pain of being cut, first on one side, then on the other. She can't quite place the location of the pain, it feels like her whole crotch is on fire, and she can't say with certainty where exactly he cut into her. Not anywhere near her clit, though, thankfully, of that she's fairly sure.

He leans down to lick at the wounds, and that intensifies the pain. But more than that, she doesn't want him to touch her most private parts, doesn't want his tongue exploring her, doesn't want him to taste her. She shrieks into her gag at the violation, but all it does is make him more eager.

Unfortunately, he seems to know what he's doing. He licks at her clit in a way that activates some primal part of her that doesn't care she's disgusted, that doesn't care she's terrified, that doesn't care she doesn't want this. She can feel herself getting wet.

Her sobs are shaking her body. The betrayal she feels at herself, at her own bodily reactions to his violation, makes her want to be sick.

He adds a finger to his tongue, like he knows exactly how to manipulate her body: she can feel the arousal within herself, even despite the fear and the pain and the humiliation. There's a part of her that wants him to keep going, a part of her that wants this, and this realization is the worst thing of all.

When he stops what he's doing, she is dripping wet, legs shivering, her face wet with snot and tears. He looks at her, apparently pleased with what he's seeing.

"Are you on birth control?"

She shakes her head, terrified. Of course she isn't. She never thought anything like this was going to happen to her.

He sighs, takes a condom from his pocket.

"I won't have you coming to me for child support," he rasps curtly.

She isn't sure whether to take this as a good sign or a bad one.

He opens his pants and she doesn't want to look but can't stop herself. He looks _big_. Then again, she doesn't have a frame of reference for comparison. It only takes a moment until the condom is in place and she is at his mercy.

When he pushes into her, it doesn't even hurt at first. She's so wet that his cock glides in easily, and she hates that it does, that her body is incapable of putting up more resistance. However, when he starts moving in earnest, she can feel a soaring pain where he cut her before, and the pain makes her whole body tense up.

He makes a sound, then, a moan of pleasure, of triumph, and she understands that he wanted her to hurt like this, that this was the whole point: she is wet enough so he can fuck her, but the pain makes it impossible to relax and so every one of his strokes hurts like hell.

Her pleas for him to stop turn into shrieks and screams and groans of pain, all muffled by the gag but still very much audible to him, who seems to revel in the sounds of her misery.

He fucks her until her soul feels numb. Until the pain doesn't seem real any more. After a while, it feels like her mind lets go of her body, like she doesn't really inhabit it any more. Every part of her is limp, her flesh shaken by his movements, by his thrusts, like a never-ending nightmare.

Time stops existing. There's only pain, only violation, only terror. She doesn't know whether it takes ten minutes or two years, it all feels the same now.

She closes her eyes once, but he tells her to look at him, and so she does. Those dark, unfeeling eyes—there's something uncanny about them, something she can't quite define, something that will haunt her forever. That look of taking pleasure in causing another person pain.

And then, he comes with a groan, and it's over.

She feels broken. Like he reached into her and closed his fist around her soul until it shattered.

She cannot move.

She cannot think.

She cannot scream.

She's only vaguely aware of him untying her arms, of him licking the salt of her dried tears from her face. It's not her body any more, there's no point in caring.

He turns her head to the side, cuts a strand of hair from the base of her skull.

"I won't ever forget you," he promises, his voice soft as silk. "And you won't ever forget me."

It's not a question, and she doesn't react.

He removes the gag from her mouth and kisses her, long and deep, for the first time. He tastes of pain and of blood and of stale cigarettes. She wants it to end but can't move. She wants to be disgusted but after all that's happened, she's just numb.

And then, he's gone, and she's alone in the world. The smell of blood is all around her, and she can feel the goosebumps on her cold skin.

And still, she cannot scream.


End file.
